Flattery Wyvernspur: A Broken Music Box
by Silver Idea
Summary: A brilliant but self-centred bard creates an immortal magical copy of himself to ensure that his songs will live forever. There's just one problem: the copy can't sing.
1. Chapter 1

Colors and shadows, all unconnected to one another, filled his sight making him blink.

"It's awaken. Good."

The sound made no sense until he made an effort and understood that these were words. He forgot the sound of them before he could figure out what they meant.

"Can you hear me?"

A group of highlights and shadows moved and suddenly he discovered that they were one solid shape – moving, speaking, living. It was a face. He blinked again, a bit worried that the face would break up into a chaos of grotesque shapes again, but it didn't.

"Move your hand," the face demanded.

Automatically, he obeyed and discovered that he had a body — and hands, and feet — and that he wasn't infinite, his conscious was floating within the borders of his flesh.

"Now sit up."

While trying to lift himself from whatever he was lying on, he spotted that the face, that had been talking to him, had a body, too, although wrapped up into something.

"Well?" demanded the bodied face.

"Well?" He tried to repeat the sound as accurately as he could, for he was unable to compute what reaction the face expected from him.

"Say something," demanded the face.

"Say what-thing?" he asked before he could think better of how and what about he was going to ask the face.

The face made an uninterpretable sound — a mixture of a sigh and a growl.

"Maryje, give me my flute. I think it needs more sleep to get its wits about it."

"What is a Maryje? And why does your flute need sleep?" This unexpected outburst of curiosity made him say more words than his throat was capable of saying at the moment, and by the end of the second question it felt like someone had turned down the volume, so he couldn't ask what a flute was.

The slight ache made him put his hand on his throat, and for a few seconds he forgot all about the talking face, the Maryje and the flute, until a new sound, a melody, filled his head. Before he could wonder what it was, he fell asleep, his body dropping down flat and motionless again.


	2. Chapter 2

During his sleep he suddenly became aware of many things. Knowledge about the world and himself filled his consciousness, but it all felt strange, incomplete and disconnected, as if someone had been trying to glue up a broken cup using pieces from a completely different set of china.

When he woke again the first thing he saw was the same man who had been talking to him.

"How do you feel now?" asked the man.

"Cold" he said, sitting up on the hard surface, rather a worktable than a bed.

"It's because you are naked." The man handed him something through the gap between the bars. "Here are some clothes for you."

"Why am I in a cage?" he asked the man, reaching out and touching the metal bars before taking the clothes.

"Oh. That's for our mutual safety. You see, my workshop is full of scientific and magical objects and we don't want you to come across something dangerous while wandering around. Your living quarters, although not very spacious, have everything you might need, and when you are ready, I'll let you out."

After putting on the linen shirt and the woolen trousers the man had given him he looked at the man's own clothes and said:

"Your clothes look different. I want jewels on my clothes as well."

The man laughed. "You'll have to work harder than that to earn some jewels of your own. Why do you even care for jewels?"

"I don't know. They look shiny and beautiful."

The man looked slightly amused. "Who might have thought that you'd care for such things."

"Well, you care for them if you wear them. Why can't I?"

"I never thought—" started the man and then it came to him that he was participating in a sort of childish dialogue he never expected to waste time on. "Never mind. Now, do you feel warm enough to sing?"

"Sing?" He blinked. "I don't know. I feel strange. What happened to me?"

"You were born", replied the man. "That must feel strange. I don't actually remember how it felt for me."

"I remember a lot of things, but my memories feel… weird."

"It's because they are not your memories, they are mine. I gave them to you."

"Why?" he asked, wondering if it made any difference if his memories weren't his own from the beginning.

"You need to have them to sing my songs. Will you please sing something for me now?"

He tried. At first, his voice was so weak and shaky that he wondered if he could sing at all, but by the middle of the first verse he thought that the sound of his voice was more or less close to the pattern in his head.

"Stop that!" cried the man. "Do you call that singing?"

"What else do you think it is?" he retorted, all of a sudden feeling irritated too.

The man looked surprised and then his eyes narrowed.

"You are not to speak to me like that. I created you, I am your Father and you are to behave and to do as I say."

"Father…" the son repeated thoughtfully, this new information making him forget the feeling of anger. "Do you want me to try again?"

Father calmed down. "Yes. And try to keep to the rhythm more carefully this time."

This time Father didn't let him finish the verse and made him start it from the beginning again. And then he stopped him again to show how the song was supposed to sound. Father's voice was rich and strong and it matched perfectly to the pattern engraved in the son's mind. The son's face darkened when he realized how different Father's voice was from his own.

"Now you try," said Father.

"I can't. I'm hungry."

"Hungry?" echoed Father as though it was the last thing he expected to hear. "All right, we'll continue training after you have something to eat. I'll have Maryje bring you some food.

He left.

The son searched his memories to see if he knew who Maryje was. He knew. She was an apprentice and a friend. And she loved him. Curios to meet this Maryje and feeling better now that Father had left, the son stood up to examine the room and the fenced part of it which Father called 'living quarters'. There were no windows, and whoever had put the furniture into the workshop obviously preferred wardrobes and shelves to armchairs or tables. There was a marble-topped desk, apparently Father's workplace, with things like scripts and quills cluttered on it. More scripts, books and odd objects (some glowing almost as bright as the magical light-stones in the ceiling) lay on the shelves, which were crowding up every wall of the workshop. Almost every shelf contained a musical instrument.

The cage, on the other hand, contained next to nothing. The worktable for a bed, a low three-legged stool with no particular purpose for existence, and a well in the corner. The thin mattress and the blanket could do nothing to make the worktable-bed any softer so the only difference between the bed and the floor was the fact that the bed was much higher.

There was a small wooden frame hanging above the well. He came up to it and was startled to see his Father's piercing blue eyes — before realizing it was a mirror. Had the face in the mirror looked less pale and wary, he would have thought that Father was watching him through a small framed window. The face was his own, still it had nothing but Father's features.

He heard somebody sing. The sound was muffled and after just a few seconds the singing stopped. The workshop door opened and a young woman came in. She looked beautiful as well as nervous. Her glance searched the room for its occupant and as soon as her eyes met his, she looked down at the tray she was holding.

"I brought you some food", she forced herself to say.

"Why did you sing?" he asked.

"To open the door," answered Maryje without looking up. "Singing is the key".

At this point she faced an obvious dilemma: the tray wouldn't go through the bars, for it was too wide, and Maryje had to either go and fetch the key to the cage's door or to put the tray onto the corner of the desk and pass the bowl, the cup and the bread through the bars one by one. She chose the latter option. Carefully, as though there was a poisonous snake behind the bars, she stretched out her hand, holding the bowl, intending to put it onto the floor at the other side. The son came up to her, watching her closely then bending down to pick up the bowl.

"What is this?" he asked, hoping to make Maryje look directly in his eyes. He couldn't understand why she was ignoring him.

"Soup," she said, finally looking up. By the expression of her face he guessed that what she saw made her feel even more uncomfortable.

"And some wine," she added after an awkward pause, turning to the tray again. "And bread."

"Maryje, you can sing well, can't you?" he asked before she took the last thing from the tray, a loaf of bread.

"Why?" she asked, her surprise making her sound human.

"Can you teach me so that when Father asks me to sing for him again, he shall not be disappointed?"

Maryje picked the loaf from the tray, her face frowning indecisively.

"It is for Master to decide if I am to teach you anything. You can ask him yourself, if you like."

Something in her voice indicated that she didn't want to help him at all.

"Now eat your dinner. I'll come up later to collect the dishes." Having decided against putting bread on the floor, she outstretched her hand for him to take the loaf. But instead of taking the loaf he caught her by her wrist so that she wouldn't go away.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, his tight grip unintentionally hurting her. The loaf fell on the floor.

"But I thought you'd—" he breathed out, puzzled by the fear and disgust in her eyes.

And then he realized. It wasn't his memory and it wasn't he who she loved. She didn't care for him at all, she was terrified of him, dreaded the very thought of being around him. She was here just because Father ordered her to bring the food.

His grip became weary and he let go of her hand. Without saying another word she hurried out of the room.

"I thought you'd help me," he muttered sitting down on his bed, realizing just how stupid he had been.

The soup went cold long before he felt hungry enough to eat it.


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you feeling better now?"

The son was beginning to hate this question for he already knew what was going to follow it. He nodded silently.

"Now let's try again," said Father. "Let's take another song, maybe something easier this time."

But soon it became clear that no song was easy enough for the son's quivering voice, and Father began to lose patience again.

"What's wrong with you? I equipped you with all the experience and physique needed to sing perfectly, and all you are able to produce is some bleating!"

"I do try hard," the son replied, wishing his voice was strong enough to shout back. "But I'm tired."

Father took the flute from his desk.

"All right, if your voice is tired, try playing the flute. You must be capable of at least something at this point."

The son took the heavy silver flute decorated with ivory. Although he had never touched a flute before, he knew how to play it. He put it to his lips and a strong, clear melody filled the room.

Father closed his eyes, fully concentrating on the sound, nodding his head from time to time, while the son didn't dare to move an inch, afraid of failing more than ever now that Father finally looked pleased. Just when this fear began to give way to the feeling of triumph, his Father suddenly opened his eyes.

"Ah!" he cried. "The wrong note!"

The son blinked. "No," he said. "Every note was right."

He was sure of it. His voice may have been weak and worthless, but his hearing was as sharp as a knife.

"Are you saying I can't hear what you are playing?" asked Father, annoyed.

"I am saying every note was right."

"Play that last part again."

The son obeyed.

"Now, that's better," said Father.

"But it's exactly what I played the first time," said the son stubbornly.

"No, it wasn't." Father gave him a long look. "Still, I think that's enough argument for one day. We'll continue tomorrow."

He took back the flute and walked away. The son didn't say anything — he was still thinking about the notes. He was sure he played it right.


	4. Chapter 4

Maryje didn't come to collect the dishes and it was someone else who brought his supper.

"Have been having a hard day, huh?" said this new someone.

The son lifted his head from the pillow to see who was talking to him. It was a young man with fair hair and bright eyes. The son checked if his memory had a record of this visitor. The record was very small: another apprentice of his Father's.

"I guess so", replied the son putting his head back and starring at the ceiling. Somehow it felt better to speak to someone from who he had absolutely no expectations.

"I heard Master Finder say you are not a nightingale yet," continued the apprentice. "Don't worry, it will get better, eventually. My name is Kirkson, by the way."

For the first time it occurred to him that he didn't know what his own name was. He sat up, thoughtful look on his face.

"Perhaps you also happen to know what my name is?" He paused. "I don't."

Kirkson's eyebrows hid behind his fringe for a fraction of a second, then he said:

"Ah, Master Finder must have forgotten to tell you your name." He chuckled. "I guess, he did."

"Do you know it?" asked the son eagerly.

"Sure," said Kirkson, his eyes glittering with mischief. "Flattery, that's what your name is."

"Flattery," the son murmured, tasting the sound of his name.

Kirkson reached out for the low stool and moved it closer to the bars so that he wouldn't have to put the dishes onto the floor the way Maryje did.

"Your apartment definitely needs more furniture," muttered Kirkson. "Anyway don't hesitate to eat your supper; food always makes one feel better."

Perhaps Kirkson was expecting a thank you or any simple indication of gratitude, but Flattery didn't feel like being grateful and starred back at the apprentice with blank expression on his face.

"Why did Father create me?" he asked.

"Well—" Kirkson found it difficult to give a short answer. "He is a great bard. You probably have no idea yet how great he is. He always resented the thought that after his death his songs will either inevitably change through generations or will be stored in lifeless magical artifacts. He wanted to create someone with emotions and free will to sing his songs just like he would if he were immortal, which, surprisingly, he is not."

"Am I?"

"Of course, you are, that's the idea. At least, if you don't jump off a cliff or something, which I suggest you not do, by the way. So, back to the answer, he created you to sing his songs."

"What if I can't sing?"

"What if you— Oh, I don't know." Kirkson looked as though he wished his talkative attitude didn't lead him to having to answer such difficult questions. "You are identical to Master Finder, sure you can sing, you probably just need more time to train your voice. Keep trying."

Flattery didn't seem to be any happier after this attempt to cheer him up. Reluctantly he took his plate from the stool.

"Well, I don't feel I should be the one telling you all this," explained Kirkson, "but if Master Finder hadn't told you, I don't know who else would. Clearly, Maryje is too shocked to talk to you. Don't be hard on her, she's only a woman and she needs some time to accept the fact that her precious Master Finder is not so unique anymore. Women are funny creatures."

Seeing his words were completely wasted on Flattery, the apprentice shrugged and concluded: "Anyway, tomorrow is going to be a better day, you'll see." And he left.

Although Flattery did appreciate everything Kirkson had done and said, he didn't know how to show it – it was something no one had taught him and neither his memory, nor his experience could give him a hint.

He knew that just like Father and Maryje, Kirkson could sing, but now Flattery didn't feel like asking anyone for lessons. He began to suspect that singing it right wouldn't be good enough, just like playing the flute right wasn't. He wondered what was good enough for Father to let him out. Later, during the night, he pondered if there was a way at all not to spend the whole of his eternal life in the cage.


	5. Chapter 5

The second day of his existence was so similar to the first one, that it was hard to tell if it was another day or the same day going in circles. Maryje brought him breakfast, and although he didn't do anything to scare her, he silently gloated at the way she used a saucer for bread this time.

Father came not long after breakfast. He unlocked the cage and stepped into it, holding a yarting. Then he brought in a chair for himself.

"Now, let's try again. I'll accompany your singing."

The immediate result of this plan was easy to predict.

"That will not do!" shouted Father making Flattery shudder. "I could sing that song in my sleep and you seem to be as dumb as a pan!"

"I am not a pan," Flattery countered with all stubbornness of a toddler.

"You know what I mean. I want you to sing my songs, not mumble or gabble through them!"

Just when Flattery opened his mouth to say something equally rude, the workshop door opened and Maryje asked for permission to come it.

"I am sorry, Master Finder, but there's a message for you. Just arrived."

"Is it urgent enough to delay our training?"

"I thought it might be, it's from the Red Stone castle," said Maryje apologetically. She had already noticed that it wasn't the best time.

"What urgent matter could possibly be with those lunatics!" muttered Finder. "The creature will never make any progress if we are interrupted by every trifle possible!"

"Flattery," said Flattery.

"What?" Finder turned his head at the unexpected reply.

"I said my name is Flattery."

"Your name?" Finder looked bewildered. "I didn't give you any name! Especially not this rubbish!"

"That is my name", pronounced Flattery stressing 'my'.

"This is despicable! How did… oh, I bet I know who is responsible for this joke. Listen, your name is not Flattery—"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it isn't! I'll give you another name, something suitable, when I have time."

"I don't want another name! My name is Flattery!"

Maryje was starring with pure horror at the two men arguing in front of her. She didn't try to interfere in any way, but it was her silent presence that finally calmed Finder down.

"I'm going to have to talk to Kirkson. We shall continue after that."

He went out of the cage, locking the door behind him, and followed Maryje into the corridor.

Although he left both his chair and the yarting in the cage, Flattery didn't even think about touching either of them.


	6. Chapter 6

"I guess, this day was pretty rough as well." Kirkson's voice sounded too cheerful for the occasion. "For me at least, it was. But I couldn't resist taunting His Vanity. It was a one in a lifetime experience, although I do regret it now. He might have some faults, but he is a great man."

Flattery was sitting on the stool, pecking at the dinner. Or perhaps it was super, for it was hard to tell, the magical stones and the absence of windows made it all look like one endless day.

"And how are things going with you?" asked Kirkson, so far failing to encourage Flattery to say more than a word.

Flattery shrugged.

"I see," said Kirkson. "Master Finder doesn't seem to be a very compassionate parent. It must be hard for him to understand that in his genius he created a human being, not another music box. Well… Do you need anything else I can get for you?"

"I can think of nothing", Flattery replied. He hesitated. "Somewhere between yesterday and today I wished I had a flute to practice, but now I don't want it. I'd rather stare at the ceiling."

Kirkson sighed. "Sad. I don't know if I can be of any help here, but a good book might." He came up to one of the shelves and picked a few books. "Poetry? I guess, it can be too depressing, but see for yourself. I prefer adventure stories, maybe there are some in these books. Here. Just hide them under the blanket before Master comes, or we are both in big trouble. And by big trouble I mean he won't let me even peep into this room if he thinks my influence is bad."

Flattery accepted this gift with an invisible spark of hope: he didn't remember any of them from his built-in experience so there was a good chance that it wasn't Father who wrote them. As soon as Kirkson left, he buried himself in the books. All of them were poetry, indeed. Reading about the dolorous weather or boring details of eternal love wasn't much of an entertainment; still it was good to hate something apart from music and singing, and the books gave him the feeling of being somewhere else but his cage.

When he felt tired enough to sleep, he hid the books as Kirkson advised him to. After he'd laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, lines of poetry were still lingering in his mind, but his drowsiness made him too apathetic to dismiss them. And then a strange thing happened. A voice, as clear as if it were real, said: "These are no match to the songs I sing". Flattery sprang up on his bed. It wasn't his thought. It was something alien.

I don't want your thoughts, he moaned under his breath. Go away.

He lay back, trying to wipe away every trace of Father's thoughts from his mind. But from now on his every thought was accompanied by the gnawing suspicion that it wasn't his.


	7. Chapter 7

Father came at what felt like the dawn of the third day of Flattery's existence. Flattery expected that Father would keep arguing about Flattery's name, but he didn't. He just wanted Flattery to sing.

"Yes, Father," he said in a reluctant tone, knowing that he would have to try again and again until Father finds his singing agreeable.

Sitting down on his chair, Finder remarked:

"I'd rather you don't call me Father. I am known as Finder Wyvernspur and it is by this name I want to be known to future generations, so I want you to use it when mentioning me. When addressing me, you can call me Master Finder, the way my apprentices do."

"Yes, Master Finder", he replied unenthusiastically.

It never dawned on Master Finder that his creature might be dependent on its emotions, the way ordinary people are, but something prompted him that just like a piano, the creature might need some tuning. He cleared his throat and said:

"So far your singing wasn't in any way satisfactory, but I want you to try until you succeed. I made you, I know you can do it. I believe in you."

His soft voice was encouraging — and threatening. Flattery gazed up at him, silently asking for clarification. Finder saw it as a sign of submissiveness.

"Come on, sing for me." He gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll accompany you." He put the flute to his lips and waited, granting Flattery the luxury of choosing the song for himself.

Flattery gathered all his will, aiming it at singing as best as he could. He longed to be able to sing, no matter that he hated it. He wanted Father to stop shouting and let him out. If singing was the price, he would have to do it. I know, you can do it, a small voice said to him.

He chose Father's favorite song, 'The Tears of Selune', partly because it started off as a slow tender ballad which didn't require a great vocal strength. And it was his mistake — although he sang better than he ever had, Father couldn't bear his favorite song to be sung in any voice weaker than his own.

"Stop that, just stop that," Father cut him short at the very moment when Flattery was beginning to grow hopeful. His singing ceased abruptly. "Listen to how it must be sung." Father sung the song himself, not caring to sing the whole of it but giving a strong example of the one and only way he wanted it to sound. "Now you."

Flattery lost his hope. "I won't," he said quietly. No matter how hard he tried, it meant nothing.

"What?" Father looked astonished, as if a piano was talking to him saying it was in no mood to play.

Flattery shot him a glowering look. "I won't sing."

Father stood up, desperate.

"I gave you the most beautiful and precious thing the Realms will ever know — my songs! — and you are saying you don't want to sing them?"

"If you gave me your songs," reasoned Flattery, "they are mine. I decide to sing them or not."

He just wanted to say it, he knew about the lack of logic behind these words. Father gave him his memories and thoughts as well, still they didn't become his own, they were just menacing intruders of his mind. Just like the songs.

Fury was glittering in Father's eyes. "You decide nothing unless you do what I created you for! Now try it again, sing!"

"I WILL NOT SING!"

The words still echoed in the room when Father's flute struck Flattery's face leaving a bleeding bruise on his cheek. Then the flute fell on the floor, making a scratching sound while rolling away.

Father looked as shocked as Flattery.

"I didn't..." he whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this to you."

The words wandered senselessly in Flattery's mind. The pain and fear were merging into each other and he couldn't tell which was more acute.

"I'm sorry," Father said again. "Will you forgive me?" He waited but there was no answer. "Are you even listening to me?"

The creature was silent, its figure slumped and stiff, and Finder couldn't tell what was concealed behind this silence. He bent over to pick up the flute. Flattery's gaze finally cleared and quickly followed the motion of Finder's hand. When Finder looked up at him again, Flattery was sitting upright, with his arms put around his chest in a defensive way.

"Are you unwilling to speak to me?" Finder sniffed. "I said I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can say."

Flattery said nothing.

"Fine. Be stubborn, if you want to," Finder growled. "I'll come back tomorrow and you'd better come to your senses by then."

He locked the cage from the other side and left.

Now that there was no need to be alert, Flattery felt weak, almost sick. He knew there was nothing he could do to please Father. Father gave him his body, his songs, his memories and thoughts — and yet seemed to hate him for the mere fact that he wasn't the Finder Wyvernspur.

He curled up on his bed, listening to the pounding of his heart and it was the only sound he could bear.


	8. Epilogue

Kirkson came later in the night and found Flattery in a distressed state. The meal, brought by Maryje earlier, stood cold and untouched.

"Not hungry at all?" mused Kirkson, expecting the figure lying on the bed to rise at the sound of his steps. It didn't. From where Kirkson was standing it looked as though it was a sack of potatoes.

"Flattery?" called Kirkson, his voice slightly guilty from mentioning this name. Flattery moved and rose up. "Ah, you were sleeping, just as I—" Kirkson's voice ceased when he saw Flattery's face. It was impossible to mistake the bruise for anything else. " — As I thought", he finished. "What happened to you?" He bit his lip, immediately realizing exactly what happened.

Flattery didn't say anything. He was angry at the way Kirkson looked at him, this shocked look reminded him of Maryje.

"Um, I shouldn't be surprised, though," Kirkson said. "Master is as dark as a thundercloud today. Is it painful?" He waved his hand at Flattery's face. "Maybe I could find some potion to –"

"No," Flattery lied. It was painful but not in the way Kirkson imagined.

"All right." Kirkson looked lost. "I don't even know what to say."

"If you continue saying I should sing, I might kill you."

Kirkson smiled wearily. It was nothing like a joke. "Then I won't say anything of the sort. I am thinking if I could help you in any way. Perhaps, if I talk to Master, things will get better."

Flattery wished Kirkson stopped saying that things would get better. Flattery had seen all the indication that things would never get better for him. Someone as optimistic as Kirkson couldn't understand what it was like.

Kirkson continued: "I'm sure he didn't want to hurt you."

If he didn't want to hurt me, Flattery thought, why had he even bothered to give me the ability to feel pain? The answer came at once, and this time it really didn't matter if it was his own conclusion or his father's. Emotions were necessary to perform the songs. As simple as that.

Kirkson saw that his attempts to be sympathetic were too far from hitting the target, so he gave up.

"Do you want any new books?" he offered at last.

"No. I haven't read all of the ones you gave me yet."

"Do you like them?"

"No. But they will do."

"May I say that you'd better eat something before you drop dead of starvation?"

"Are you being funny?" Flattery's voice became imperious and for the first time reminded Kirkson of Finder's.

Kirkson stood his ground. "No. I'm being reasonable. There's no point in diminishing your chances for survival. I know what I'm saying."

Flattery shrugged Kirkson's advice away, but, nevertheless, when the apprentice left, took the bowl.

He knew that Father would come again and he would have to face him. He also knew that Father would try to make him sing again, maybe would kill him while doing so, but there was just one thing Flattery was certain about: he would neither sing, nor would he say a word to Father ever again.

* * *

**Author's comment:**

And that is pretty much it.) I decided to pull the curtain down here, because it would be too much of a heart-breaking experience for me to write the part when… urgh, go and read the book.))) It is really the best book I've ever read (the Finder's Stone trilogy by Kate Novak and Jeff Grubb). It's amazing how gracefully it combines thrilling adventure with mature ideas.

Writing this story made me think of many things I have never noticed as a reader. For instance, I never really understood that Flattery's words "I don't want his thoughts" might actually mean that a part of Flattery's own mind must have constantly been telling him that he must sing Finder's songs. Imagine how torturous it must have been.

I'm kind of proud of the role I gave to Maryje in my fic. I had no particular plan for her until I remembered the part in the book that always puzzled me, the way Flattery lost his nerve at Giogi's taunt "The lady never loved you; she was terrified of you". Flattery couldn't possibly expect Cat to love him while he did everything to frighten her for his amusement. Why did the taunt work? Perhaps, once he had good reason to expect Maryje to love him and was bitterly disappointed to find she was terrified of him. It's just my guess, but it makes sense in terms of the character's psychology.

And finally, I suspect that Flattery must have had nightmares in his first days of life, just like Alias did, but my story is depressing enough without any nightmares, so I cut it out. I also cut out any mention of the second door in the workshop (there was no need in mentioning it) and the disintegration ring. I know, it would be a brilliant move to mention the ring, in terms of foreshadowing, but I had no logical need for it in the story and couldn't just make Finder say something like "Check it out, I have a cool disintegration ring and you don't, you looser!" and leave it on his desk.:))

Thanks again for being here with me, I hope you enjoyed what you've read.) 


End file.
